


Sleep, Don't Visit

by betp



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Futurefic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-28 03:10:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betp/pseuds/betp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Worth dying for, huh?"</p><p>Stiles leans against the doorframe, watches Derek sleep in a square of moonlight with an intense satisfaction welling in him. "Absolutely."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleep, Don't Visit

 

 

 

march

Things are strictly casual, when they start up. It's something they agree on, eyes narrowed and nodding understandingly. They don't want to be in a relationship—certainly not with each _other_ —and even if they _did_ , it wouldn't be a good idea right now.

That's what they tell each other. It's what they agree on.

It's the best sex Stiles has ever had. I mean, he's a virgin, technically, but it's the best sex he could ever _imagine having_. It turns out he's really good at taking it up the ass. The first time is all right, and the second time he orgasms so hard he cries. Derek is worried, but "No, no," Stiles says, "keep going, come, I'm good, this happens."

Not that he would know. He _assumes_ it happens—I mean, it happened to _him_. Derek kisses him through it. It's not something Stiles has seen in porn before. What's weird about Derek is even though you'd expect every bit of him to have happened in porn before, there's something about him that takes Stiles by surprise. Something in the way Derek looks at him.

"You sure we can do this?" Derek asks him when Stiles is done clinging and shaking his way through the fourth time.

"Yeah, we definitely can," Stiles replies. He still hasn't unfisted his hand from Derek's unbuttoned shirt. "Absolutely. No strings attached, it's fine."

Derek looks unsure, but Stiles is not stopping this. Just the thought of it makes him sad.

 

 

 april

Danny and Boyd bluster into Stiles' workplace one night at two in the morning with a classmate and a cloud of glamor. He feels sort of impressively unimpressive when they lean up on the counter and look rad at him, hoping he'll let them make free copies. (He won't.)

"This is Gabe," Danny tosses out, and Stiles glances at their classmate. Just as tall and stoic as Boyd, just as casually windswept as Danny, just as collectively superior to Stiles.

Stiles doesn't generally feel inferior, but at two in the morning in a pilled, ill-fitting polo shirt (he was given two; one's too big and the other's too tight), it's difficult not to feel like shit. He nods apathetically at Gabe, and looks down just in time to miss whatever super cool expression he likely sends back in return. "M'Stiles," he says, already looking back at his phone.

"Stiles?" Gabe asks, grinning. "Kinda name is _that_?"

"The kind I own," replies Stiles.

"But that's not your actual name."

"It is a word, a string of sounds, that indicates me." Stiles waves a hand in a halfassed flourish. "Ergo, it is my name."

"Fair enough," Gabe agrees amicably. "S'nice to meet you, Stiles." He leans casually on Stiles' counter, fidgets with a pen with a plastic spoon taped to it. Stiles watches this happen passively. "So," Gabe is saying; "You just start working here?"

"No?" Stiles retrieves the pen from where Gabe left it lying on the counter and returns it to the pen cup. "I got this job last June."

"Are you sure? I don't remember you."

Stiles shrugs. Danny's making Boyd recite up to twenty integers in pi. Whatsisface says something, and Stiles stops staring at Danny's teeth. "Sorry?"

"I said, you're a Mets fan?" Gabe indicates Stiles' hoodie, forgotten next to an empty Big Gulp cup.

Stiles instinctively narrows his eyes. "Yeah? What about it?"

"You won't get any shit from _me_ ," he assures Stiles. Starts fucking around with Stiles' pen again. "Mike Piazza was robbed, man."

"The guy was _burgled_ ," agrees Stiles vehemently. "Call the _police_. I mean, Hall of Fame's all stupid politics, but come _on_. He's a twelve time all-star!"

"Yeah," says Gabe, "they let _dopers_ in."

Stiles informs him, "I _know_! It's a _tragedy_." And here is where someone with more than five hours of sleep would pause for conversation's sake, but Stiles barrels on. "And just because it's the _Mets_ , people are giant _dicks_ about it. James Clark and his pals turn down half a dopehead and everyone throws a hissy fit, but _greatest catcher in the actual history of baseball_ , it's all, what's the big _deal_? Why are you so _mad_? What are you doing in my _living_ room?" Gabe is watching him, amused. Stiles gives an exasperated snort and folds his arms.

Gabe says awkwardly, "So it looks like we're both baseball fans."  

"Baseball fan? I think _not_ ," snaps Stiles. "I'm gonna _boycott_ baseball. Maybe I'll burn my jacket. Maybe I'll leave a bag of flaming dog shit on Clark's porch."

"God, he's a catcher for the Mets, not the one true messiah," interrupts Danny, to which Stiles slams a palm against the counter.

"He's more than a catcher for the Mets! He's the only thing I think about when I orgasm, _Daniel_."

Danny says, "I'm sure Derek really appreciates that."

"Look at the time," Boyd announces flatly, "we have to leave now."

"Derek thinks about him, too," Stiles calls after them. "I'm sure of it."

 

 

may

There's a routine. The jeep was totaled in September, so Derek picks Stiles up from work. They swing through Sonic, get a stupid amount of food—"Gotta carbo load," Stiles tells Derek smugly, to which Derek shoves his shoulder and spills his tater tots and Stiles laughs hysterically—drive back to the loft, and fuck each other senseless.

Stiles tells Derek about his nebulous plans to obtain a degree right after sucking his brains out through his dick—another thing Stiles is delighted to find he has a natural talent at. "I always thought I'd go into my dad's area of work," he says, rubbing come out of his eyelashes with a damp towel. "Then even that wasn't regularly interesting enough, so I figured maybe the FBI. Up the ante a little. But then _werewolves_ were real, so…"

"So, what, you want to major in werewolf-specialized crime solving?" Derek asks drily, as if there hasn't been a direct need for that since he and Stiles met.

"I'm gonna be a professional werewolf cop." Stiles tosses the towel at Derek. "Detective Wolf Cop, at your service." Then he jumps at him, pins him down on the voluminous mounds of the duvet, fingers curling around his wrists. "I'm gonna have to frisk you," he says.

 

 

june

Stiles likes the heft of Derek, the bulk and weight of him.

He likes the space he takes up, the air around him.

Stiles likes to breathe him in when they're pressed together. He likes the brand of Derek's cock in his hand, dripping down his wrist. He likes the way they kiss, sometimes, the way they get started with foreplay and get sidetracked, twisted up together, naked under the sheets.

He likes the way his thoughts skip and shatter, and then hone in sharp. He likes the ease of being with Derek, the simplicity of what they're doing, what Allison calls an "affair" and what Lydia calls "boinking." He likes the way he fits, like everything about him just sort of shifts counter-clockwise and suddenly chunks into place; he was always the wrong shape for the indentation, but it turns out he was just crooked this whole time. He even likes living with sudden, vague purpose where there was little more than a miasma of post-adolescent confusion before.

He likes the way Derek's palms flatten over the peaks of Stiles' hip bones.

Derek weaves his fingers through Stiles' hair, which sticks up, wiry, points whatever way Derek moves it.

Their feet bump together and Stiles grabs Derek, rolls them until they're wrapped up in the bedding, tied together and sharing space, and Derek's tongue tracks the pathways drops of perspiration make on Stiles' skin.

 

 

july

Stiles watches Law and Order on his phone in the dark, Derek dozing and lazily covered by the sheets beside him. "Stabler?" Stiles asks.

Derek is quiet for a moment, and then, "No."

Stiles pauses the show, points violently at screen. "Are you _kidding_ me?"  

"Guess I like 'em leaner," Derek replies flippantly. Jabs the pad of his thumb into the meat of Stiles' side, right above his hip.

Stiles jolts, smirks, accepts this. Hits play. There is a high speed chase on screen, which he watches raptly, while Derek squirms in the blankets, and then finally sighs contentedly. Presently, Stiles offers, "Benson."

"Absolutely," says Derek.

"I figured," Stiles muses. "She's sort of your type."

"I have a type?"

Stiles turns his head to quirk a grin at him—rather, where the mostly shadowed, muscular lump of darkness with faintly glowing blue irises is. "Yeah," he says. "Slim, pretty face, really good at, like, three things."

"You do have a pretty face," Derek agrees, amused and sincere, and Stiles stares at him, blinks like he could parse out every one of Derek's thoughts if he just focused on him long enough.

 

 

august

"I'm seeing someone," Stiles says when Gabe asks him out.

Not that Gabe actually asked him _out_ , per se; to wit, he finally tired of hitting on him overtly and asked him if he wanted to experience amazing sex for the first time. It doesn't work, not on Stiles, because the phrase "amazing sex" just brought to the forefront of Stiles' mind a sudden, fullbodied flashback to Derek's teeth on his collarbone while he fucked himself on Stiles' dick. So Stiles smirks, apologizes, and says he's seeing someone.

The smile drops off Gabe's face quickly and earnestly enough that Stiles feels bad for him, just for a second. Which is _saying_ something, because if you were going to make a list of people Stiles doesn't give half a fuck about, it would include everyone on earth minus six people. Five of them would be people Stiles knows in person.

"Who?" Gabe asks.

Stiles ignores him, because he's not actually sure what he and Derek _are_ anymore. And that scares the shit out of him. Things that scare the shit out of Stiles are things Stiles pointedly does not think about until they're actively chasing him through an empty high school after hours.

" _Who_?" Gabe asks again.

"We met at the grocery store," Stiles says. "I gave her car a jump. We were both missing something in our lives, we both wanted someone who understood. That's the story of how—I'm sorry, Gabe—I'm screwing your mom."

Gabe rolls his eyes, and Stiles thinks of Derek.

 

 

september  

It's _bad_ , because the pang in Stiles' chest is decidedly not casual. It's formal. Stiles has formal feelings for Derek. Derek wanted to wear jeans and ironic graphic tees, and Stiles accidentally showed up in a three-piece tux, the kind with tails and a tophat. The best Stiles can do is untuck his shirt, hide the cummerbund, hope Derek doesn't ask about the shoes. At least while they're having sex, they're mostly naked.

Stiles' favorite flannel has two missing buttons because Derek was so frantic to get his hands on Stiles. That's got to be a good sign. Stiles can hide behind the sex until he gets over his weird, clandestine, schoolgirl crush on Derek. Soon enough, he'll limp back from one of his weekend liaisons with Derek and _not_ spend an hour sitting in the tub, directing the shower head at his face, and daydreaming about the way Derek looks when he's getting pissed off about Fred Basset.

("The joke is he's a dog, that's the joke," Derek snaps. "The dude comes home, and Fred's in his chair, because he's a dog. That's the joke. Knock knock, who's there, woof."

Stiles laughs until he cries.)

Soon enough, it will go away. He just has to believe it enough to spark it into truth.

 

 

november

It won't go away. Stiles knows this the moment Derek's hand, hot and damp, closes over Stiles', and his lips meet the knot in Stiles' spine at the base of his neck, and Derek's name comes sliding smooth and natural out of Stiles' mouth.

Scott is very supportive. Stiles loves Scott.

Scott shows up on the Stilinskis' porch while the sheriff's at work, brandishes a bottle of vodka. "Someone once told me that when your best friend is sad, you get your best friend drunk," he informs Stiles, smiling one of those Scotty smiles that you literally, actually cannot _not_ smile back at.

So Stiles is smiling when he snatches the bottle out of Scott's hands. It's barely ten in the morning and Stiles couldn't begin to care.

"He's been sleeping win—with you for _months_ ," Scott informs him reasonably, watching Stiles cram his sixth Pizza Lunchable into his mouth an hour later. "I don' get why you think he wouldn' wanna date you."

"If he wanted d'date me, that's what he would've asked for," says Stiles. Then he takes a minute to carefully suck the sauce out of its plastic tube. "He didn' ask to date me, he ass—asp to—"

Scott corrects, "He didn' ask for anything. It just—"

" _Happened_ ," finishes Stiles, grateful and reverent.

"You guys hang out all th' time. He watches the X Files with you." Scott takes a shot of vodka, and chases it with Stiles' Capri Sun. "He _texts_ you—"

"But we never—we never," says Stiles, and then he has to stop to hiccup and dig the heel of his palm into his forehead. "We never just make out. You _know_?" Scott sits quietly, so Stiles doesn't know if Scott knows. "Sometime, sometimes I just wanna kiss 'im. An' not do anything else, like teenagers on a date. Sometimes I jus' wanna— _sit_ with 'im, an' _talk_ an' _look_ at things, an'—you _know_?"

Scott nods slowly. "I think I do." Stiles hangs his head and picks at a tiny pizza dough. "I have a list of _options_ ," announces Scott, then, which recaptures his attention. "You can ask 'im out on a date for _real_." Stiles likes this idea until he imagines doing it, at which point he starts to panic. But number two arrives quickly enough that he doesn't linger. "Or I could beat 'im up."

"Bad idea," says Stiles. "Turrble idea. I hate it. Do it."

It starts to rain, clattering on the roof, and he and Scott drink together in warm silence.

The day after Thanksgiving, Stiles wakes up before dawn, dresses as quietly as he can, and against his better judgment, presses a kiss against the corner of Derek's sleep-slack lips before he leaves.

It's the last time he sees Derek. In fact, it's the last time anyone sees Derek.

 

 

december

"I just need to find him," Stiles informs Scott around three in the morning a week after Derek goes missing. "I can't, I just need." He's wearing one of Derek's t-shirts and he looks like he hasn't slept in days. His hands are jittering. Eyes red, jaw set. "I could bring you his clothes," he says.

"Dude, I told you," Scott says. "We can't track his scent anywhere. Deaton says it's like he doesn't want to be found."

Stiles folds his arms, shifts his weight. His voice cracks when he demands, "Well, what the hell am I supposed to _do_?"

"Have you filed a—"

"If you ask me if I've filed a missing _persons_ report," he spits like it's a swear, "I swear to god, Scott, I will _break_ your goddamn nose."

Scott looks at him, pities him. Shrugs helplessly. "I'm really sorry, Stiles," he says earnestly. "I can't track him if he doesn't _let_ me."

"So I just have to fill out a form saying Derek is gone," Stiles says acidly. "That's all I can do."

Scott steps close and drags Stiles in for a hug, so that for a second Stiles is warm and safe. But that's as long as it lasts.

 

 

january  

Derek does not come home.

Isaac slouches his way into the loft one day and jumps at the sight of Stiles, who is cocooned from the neck down in Derek's sheets, furiously typing on his laptop. It's frigid in the apartment, because Derek doesn't have heating, but Stiles is layered under a quilt, the duvet, and a fleece blanket with Batman on it. There're three empty Dr Pepper cans and the leftover scraps of waxy paper from several trips to various fast food joints throughout town littered across the floor next to the bed.

They stare at each other.

"You're still trying to find him," Isaac asks, indicating the laptop. It's a statement, but he does an eyebrow thing that makes it a question. Like the particle "ma" in Mandarin Chinese.

"What else _is_ there?" Stiles wants to know. "Should I take up knitting or something? Join a Zumba class?"

Isaac offers, "It just seems like a wasted effort." He says, "It doesn't look like he's coming home."

Stiles' mouth pinches. "It isn't like he has a _choice_ ," he grumbles.

Isaac looks at him quizzically, lazily lifts a forgotten coat from the corner of the room. "Sheriff said there was no sign of foul play."

"Yeah—sheriff's kid, I _know_. Know what else I know? That no sign of a struggle doesn't mean he just up and _left_." Isaac opens his mouth to respond, but thinks better of it and shrugs. Stiles sits up, the blankets falling into bunches around him. The cold bites through his sweater. "You think he's dead," he asks. It's a statement.

"If it looks like a duck," Isaac begins, and Stiles throws himself back into the bed. He ruined his blanket chrysalis for nothing. Absolutely nothing. He gets to work fixing it, and Isaac mutters a salutation and leaves.

 

 

february  

Derek does not come home.

Scott bursts into the loft one night—which night, Stiles does not know—and shuts Stiles' laptop on his fingers. "You need to sleep," he says firmly, decisively.

"Yeah, I really don't," Stiles says, opening the laptop back up. " _Thanks_."

"Stiles, you've been awake for days." He shuts it again. "You've been awake for _days_."

"I wonder how long Derek's been awake," returns Stiles. His eyes are burning and his back is an arc of pain. "I wouldn't know, because he is _missing_."

"I doubt he's awake right now," Scott tells him gently.

"It's been more than two months," Stiles says—pleads, more like, and Scott puts a warm, heavy hand on Stiles' shoulder. Grips where his collarbone's starting to get more visible.

"If I have to call your dad, I will."

Scott is playing dirty. Stiles clenches and unclenches his fists, and then obediently throws himself into the crummy, book-filled mess of sheets he’s let Derek’s bed become. Scott tells him firmly to get some sleep, and leaves.

If he gets up and reopens the laptop, falls asleep on a word document with a list of leads and, now, seven pages of Ws, Scott doesn’t have to find out.

 

 

march  

Derek does not come home.

Work becomes the only reason Stiles leaves the loft, minus special occasions like his dad's birthday and Shamrock Shakes.

And Gabe is okay, when he's not being a total, insufferable asshole, which—granted, that's most of the time, but Stiles tries to give it a pass because he's an asshole, too. Danny's kind of rude, too, but that might just be to people who piss him off.

Stiles is a lot more fair: he's indiscriminately rude.

Today is a day for being a total, insufferable asshole, and Stiles wants to break at least six of his bones. Maybe five, if he gets to put staples in Gabe's arm. Stiles has plenty of staples, and a stapler that swings back so you can staple shit to the wall, he could do it.

Gabe is hitting on him. It was charming, at first, but after just shy of a year of pretending not to notice Gabe's frankly unsettling overtures, and several months of his missing b—bo, b-bootycall, Stiles' patience is on an unhealthy all-grapefruit crash diet, and his rejection is slightly less than graceful.

"No," he says, flat and deep, and sudden enough that a teacher using the copy machine looks at them from across the store.

Not sudden enough to take Gabe aback for more than a half second. "Why not?" he snaps, deeply offended. Stiles might, under better circumstances, Derek-having, headacheless circumstances, be flattered enough by the flash of hurt in Gabe's eye to be a little more charitable.

"Because, even if I were interested in your little starving-poet thing you're working on," Stiles replies flatly, circling his palm around to indicate Gabe's Gabeness, "I would still be spoken for."

Gabe scowls. The comment on his starving-poet thing might have been somewhat excessive. Stiles exorbitantly does not care. "You don't have to lie to me," he informs Stiles presently. "You aren't seeing anyone."

Stiles opens his mouth defensively, and then snaps it shut, because Gabe's right. Stiles doesn't have a boyfriend. He has a missing fuckbuddy. He has a squatter's loft and a dresser full of someone else's clothes. "Fine," he says eventually. "Then I'm not dating anyone right now."

"It doesn't have to be a date," offers Gabe, aiming for sultry.

"Oh, you beat it out of me," Stiles interjects. "I'm a nun."

Gabe rolls his eyes, and Stiles thinks of Derek.

 

 

april  

Derek does not come home. And Stiles has a dream.

He's in his childhood bedroom with Derek, which is weird because he's never "been with" Derek anywhere near there. They've done it all over the loft, They've done it in Derek's truck, deep in the preserve, or under the west bridge. Crammed into the front passenger's seat, making better use of the heated seats than the car salesman might have assumed when he sold Derek the thing.

Once, Derek dropped to his knees in the forest one cold, foggy night, sucked Stiles off against a tree, and Stiles blinked up into the dark grey expanse of the woods while he filled up Derek's throat.

But he's in his childhood bedroom with Derek. The room is different than he remembers. There's a staircase in the closet, and the bed is bigger than it used to be. There's a real headboard, and the bookcase headboard is now against a wall. The mattress is the same, still creaks like it's built out of rusty nails and unfurled paper clips. The desk is piled so high with papers that the computer's on the floor. The room's a mess, really.

Stiles doesn't care, because he's fucking Derek _relentlessly_ , Derek's forearm braced horizontally across the headboard. Derek is biting a pillow, and Stiles can feel Derek's hips under his fingers, even as he knows he's dreaming. He knows he's dreaming because he's saying, "I love you, I love you so _much_ , come _back_ ," and Derek isn't saying anything. He's just really busy getting fucked, and looking amazing, just _exactly_ like Stiles remembers.

He knows he's dreaming, but Stiles resists waking up until he's burying his face in the pillow, eyes screwed shut and hands clutching at the blankets so hard his joints are aching, tendons taut, skin buzzing with anxiety. He misses Derek so much he feels it in his rib cage, bursts of noxious pressure rising up his throat until no matter how fast he breathes, it won't be enough. He knows an anxiety attack like the back of his hand, so he stays in bed that day, wan and desperate and freezing down to his bones.

 

 

may

Derek comes home.

He looks like he fell into a wood chipper, healed, and got back in.

His clothes are torn, bloody. His skin is dirty, his hair is messy and full of leaves. His cheekbones look sharper than they did the last time Stiles saw him, which was undressed and sleep-soft, greyed in his dim bedroom.

His eyes are pinpricks of blue, and when he steps under the lone streetlamp across from the loft, the dark circles under them stand out. He freezes, and Stiles freezes, and the silence on the street rings.

"Derek?" Stiles asks, useless.

"Stiles," Derek says, perplexed.

Stiles' sneakers scrape gracelessly on the pavement and he trips over his own feet in his haste to get to Derek. Derek stands stock still, and lets the momentum of Stiles send him back a step, but he catches him. Stiles' mind is a whirlwind, because Derek is alive here, warm. So tired. "God, oh my god," Stiles is saying, stepping back to see him, and Derek is quiet, blinking like he's not entirely sure what Stiles is doing here. "Where the—? Where—?"

Stiles abandons his train of thought to hug him again and pretend not to cry. After a split second of hesitation, he feels something loosen in Derek, feels him melt helplessly into him. Hands settling tentatively on his waist, up his back, shoulder blades— "Where, where have you been?" Stiles manages, quieter now. "Everyone said you weren't coming back, you were—" He gulps. "You were _dead_ , and I—"

"Stiles," Derek says, hoarse. "What're you doing here?"

"I asked you first," Stiles tells him breathlessly. "I asked—I _missed_ you."

"Have you—"

" _God_."

"Have you been _living_ here?" wonders Derek, and Stiles flushes, sheepish.

"I, maybe a couple days," he says. Derek raises his eyebrows. He's _real_. This isn't a dream. "Weeks," Stiles corrects himself, running his palms along Derek's ribs. Nodding his way closer to Derek until he could bump their noses together, if he wanted. "Months," he adds. "Yes. Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Derek mutters. Solid under Stiles' touch. Stiles wants to kiss him, but he ducks under Stiles' jaw, breathes him in at the neck.

"What should I be?" Stiles asks Derek's hair. He scratches his fingers through it, knocking some dirt and a dead leaf out. There's blood in it, dry. Too much in one place for it to be someone else's, but there's no wound.

"Just…" Derek sighs, letting Stiles take more of his weight. " _Here_."

Stiles tightens his arms around Derek like a vice. As if he needs to be told to stay.

.

In the bathroom, Stiles helps Derek out of his clothes, which are a total lost cause. "These are going in the trash," Stiles informs him.

"Don't delete my clothes," says Derek, watching Stiles unbuckle his belt.

"Correction: the garbage disposal," Stiles says with a huge grin. "I missed you," he adds, fueled by adrenaline. Derek's jeans are so matted with blood on one side that he has to peel them off. "I _missed_ you, Der. I tried to find you—"

"I dreamed about you," offers Derek. He settles onto the toilet seat, and Stiles peers silently up at him from where he's sitting on his heels on the floor. "Not every night, but a lot. I told a truck driver you were my boyfriend."

"Am I?" asks Stiles softly. He's clutching a bottle of bubble bath to his chest like it'll protect him if Derek says no. "I mean, I—I turned down like _fifty dates_ while you were gone."

"Fifty?" Derek traces the curve of Stiles' lips with his thumb, thoughtful. "So that's really, what? Four? I need a Stiles-to-reality conversion chart."

"Ha. Ha, ha." Stiles tingles when Derek says his name.

He passes Derek the bottle, frees his hands so they can rest idly on Derek's knees, warm and coarse with hair. Without taking his eyes off Stiles, Derek twists the hot water handle and the tub starts to fill.

.

Still dripping wet from the bath, to the point where he can't tell what's rivulets of water and what's clumsily applied lube, Stiles lets Derek push into him and consume him—just a little. He had a lot of dreams where he ran into Derek at a truck stop, and they hooked up somewhere, frenetic, needing to get their hands on each other immediately—but this isn't like that, it's languorous, indulgent, insistent. Derek's pushes into him are like tides, not rhythmic but soothingly irregular, up and through Stiles until his muscles are twitching and smoldering with it.

Of their own accord, his hands reach impotently for something, under a cool, forgotten pillow, through Derek's saturated hair. Stiles confesses something on an exhale. And then breathes it back in, maybe.

A palm slides on Stiles' skin, wedges itself into the crook of his knee, and presses his leg into the duvet, half of Derek's weight braced there. "You're s—" Stiles attempts breathlessly, "you're s, you're staying."

"M' _home_ ," Derek replies, deeper than he's probably ever been since he and Stiles first took up nailing each other. His forehead was made to be pressed against Stiles'. Stiles cups Derek's jaw in his fingertips, watches a droplet of water fall from Derek's eyelashes, watches Derek fuck him like he means it, like he didn't mean the loft, he meant _this_. Derek's muscles quake with strain, and Stiles kisses him through it.

.

"Scotty," Stiles hisses into his phone. He hears drowsy snuffling, and leans around the kitchen doorframe to peer back at the bed before it dawns on him that it's coming from the phone.

"Stiles?" Scott's voice is high with confusion and sleep. "It's three in the morning."

"Derek's back," says Stiles instead of acknowledging Scott's words.

"Wh—"

"Derek is back. He's in bed, he's sleep—Scott, Derek is _here_."

"Sti—"

" _I'm freaking out_."

"He just—came _back_?"

"Holy god—" Stiles has to take a quick break to do breathing exercises. "I was, I was outside. And then he, Scott, we had _the most amazing_ reunion sex."

He leans back around the wall to look at Derek again, angrily asleep, arms wrapped possessively around a pillow. That could be Stiles. _Was_ Stiles, but he had to call Scott.

"Dude," says Scott. He sounds more awake now. "If Cora finds out you waited more than five seconds to call her…"

"I understand that I've risked my life to get laid and talk to my bro about it," acknowledges Stiles. "I accept my fate, as it was _extremely_ worth it."

"Worth dying for, huh?"

Stiles leans against the doorframe, watches Derek sleep in a square of moonlight with an intense satisfaction welling in him. Cora is going to fuck him _up_. "Absolutely."

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, AU where werewolves can get drunk. I like to just Nick Fury all the pieces of canon that I don't like.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Sleep, Don't Visit by betp](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1541795) by [sallysparrow017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysparrow017/pseuds/sallysparrow017)




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